Coffee with Your Girl
by Diane Langley
Summary: Two not-so-different men have coffee with two very different women. Bruce Wayne and Diana Prince have coffee and talk about Harley Quinn; Floyd Lawton and Harley Quinn have coffee and talk about Batman.


Bruce did not know how the routine had developed. Friendships made little sense to him, and this one's steady creep into and over his life continually surprised him. However it had happened, Sunday morning coffee together had become more than a habit between Bruce Wayne and Diana Prince. Business dinner had blurred into lunch dates, and staying in had become as easy between them as going out.

This morning, Diana had shown up early, wearing sweatpants, and Alfred had let her in without buzzing for him. When he came down eventually, she knowingly said nothing to him, simply smiled and continued eating a scone. Bruce could have read a thousand things into that gesture. Instead he had nodded a greeting to Alfred, poured himself a cup of black coffee, and started his slow process of waking up.

He had been cleaning house in Gotham's dens until long after night tipped into morning.

"She has beautiful eyes."

Diana now made the unironic observation from the couch where she thumbed through the files from Belle Reve Prison. Bruce looked over to see the woman paused on Dr. Harleen Quinzel's page. The file photos showed two different sides of the Clown Queen: the studious glasses and confident half-smile on one side and the colorful makeup and titillating tongue tilt on the other.

"She's crazy," Bruce replied.

"One might even say batshit crazy. That is the saying, isn't it, Master Bruce?" Alfred spoke from the other end of the kitchen where he was hand-drying baking dishes. Bruce chuckled.

"Yes. It is."

He took another sip of his coffee and walked over from the nook to join her on the couch. He noticed his bathrobe moving around him, a daytime cape of sorts, and nearly chuckled again. Caffeine had a marvelous way of picking up three hours of sleep and stretching it into the alertness of five or six.

"Why are you looking at Harley Quinn's file?" Bruce asked.

"Did you know her when she was Harleen?" Diana's voice softened over the words, and Bruce saw sympathy on her face. She might be imagining scenarios in which a man had corrupted Harley, taken this innocent woman and shaped her into something unrecognizable, but Bruce disagreed. No one became anything without making key choices along the way.

"I didn't, but I can tell you that as Harley, she is cruel, dangerous, and promiscuous." He added the last word in hopes of pointing out that it was hardly the love for one man that made Harley act the way she acted. He thought his point was valid, but Diana's head popped up. She raised an arch eyebrow at him.

"That seems an odd word to choose as an insult, considering your romantic history, Mr. Wayne. I would hope you don't throw that same word at the ballerinas with whom you have been promiscuous," Diana said, without accusation or malice, her voice its usual graceful calm with that delicious edge of sarcasm.

Bruce felt his mouth form into a stern line. He pushed his next words out, barely refraining from gritting his teeth.

"I'm just trying to point out that you shouldn't feel sorry for her. She's a bad person."

"For killing, harboring criminals, escaping from prison… yes. For using her sexuality to her own advantage…. hardly. She's a very lovely woman, and men can be very susceptible to that," Diana replied.

If he had just met Diana Prince, he might have thought she was trying to start an argument, but instead, he recognized the cat-and-mouse pattern of her baiting. She enjoyed intellectual banter, exploring the mores and norms of man's world. He preferred action to conversation, but when her dark eyes got that almost flirtatious sparkle, he could talk to her for hours. In fact, he had done that very thing both times they had gone out for dinner.

"So we agree she's a bad person. We're just trying to decide which parts of her personality to exclude from that judgment," he said.

"Yes. I like to hope that if I someday wish to take you to bed, you will not think less of me because of it."

Bruce felt a surge of heat. He met her dark gaze, no jokes there, and he wondered how on Earth he had gotten lucky enough to have this woman in his life. He would take her in any capacity he could have her. Making her acquaintance had been chance, but from there, he must have done something right to earn her friendship. If he could continue getting it right and someday get to kiss that smart, beautiful mouth, he would count himself very lucky indeed.

"I will not think less of Harley Quinn or of you for exercising your sexuality. In fact." He paused to let the air between them crackle. "If you decide to take advantage of being a lovely woman with beautiful eyes and my male susceptibility to your charms, I might appreciate it very much."

Her smile deepened, red lips curving beautifully, and he saw the lightest flush of pleasure across her cheekbones. She lifted her coffee cup to his.

"Here's to independent women." There should have been arrogance in her toasting herself, but instead the confidence sparkled.

"Here's to men who aren't intimidated by them." He clicked his coffee cup against hers.

* * *

Floyd knew he should not let her climb through the window. His days with his daughter were precious, special, and he knew his good behavior was the only reason the guards stayed outside the apartment door rather than hovering inside. Letting crazy Harley Quinn visit before his daughter woke up on Sunday mornings was not the way to keep that privilege.

But when she knocked on the glass, hanging by a twisted tie-dye bedsheet and smiling that big, open-mouthed grin, Floyd could not resist her. He knew the Joker had no idea about his girl's weekly visits to the incarcerated assassin.

Harley loved coffee, and for it - any maybe even for him - she remained quiet. This morning, she took a cross-legged seat in the corner with her cracked mug and gulped down a sip that was too hot. She gagged, sticking her tongue out and panting like a dog until the pain stopped.

"Batman gets 'em again," she said suddenly. Floyd glanced over in the direction of her gaze. She had her eye on the front page of the morning paper, which boasted an article on the caped crusader.

"He's been kicking ass and taking names lately," he agreed. He got up to rinse out his coffee mug and put it in the sink. He had his coffee promptly upon waking, the same way every time. When he had been a free man, he had even timed it to the minute: 2 minutes of cooldown, 10 mouthfuls, washed mug with one teaspoon of soap. Precision in all things kept aim true.

He walked back over to sit down on the couch.

"He can't get me and Mistah J." She grinned. "We're living right under his nose."

She wiggled her nose between her thumb and forefinger. Floyd said nothing, knowing she wasn't done. After every hair-bobbling, playful comment, Harley would come into herself and say something different. He had a feeling that if too many hours together ever passed, she'd open a vein and bleed out everything she kept hidden.

"You should let me get you out of here, Deadshot. We could put some bullets back in your…" She raked her eyes over him. "Gun."

He knew she didn't mean anything by her innuendo. If a few more of her prison guards had realized that, their lives would have been longer.

"I'm retired, dollface. Putting in my time and raising my kid. You be bad for both of us out there."

Harley got up now, peeked the direction of the doorway, and then pranced to the sink. She tossed her mug in, unrinsed, and then trotted back to the living room. Picking the paper back up, she held it up open in front of her, shielding her face.

"What do you think happened to him?"

"Who?"

"Batsy. I mean, something has to happen to someone for them to put on bat ears and swoop around fighting crime." The paper quivered in front of her face, the crinkling noise joining the sound of her voice.

"You think they're ears? I kinda just thought they were points," Floyd said.

"Maybe something real bad happened to him. Like real bad." Harley dropped the paper from in front of her face. Her eyes sparkled a little. "You think he's ever been in love?"

Floyd nearly winced at Harley's classic question. Whether she knew it or not, she obsessed over love, wondered about its presence in the world, pondered how it affected other people. He didn't know if she had noticed that love was the real bad thing that had happened to her. The Joker was one bad motherfucker.

"Probably. Most people have." Floyd shrugged.

Harley held the paper a few seconds longer, her hands trembling, and then turned back to the front page. She dropped a kiss on the paper image of Batman and then ripped the page in half, in half again, and then again. With a toss of her hands, she rained newspaper confetti down on both of them. Then she sat down on the couch beside him.

When she crossed her legs under to sit, he saw bruises in rainbow colors along her inner thighs. The placement matched hands splayed roughly on her pale skin, and he looked away, his stomach turning a queasy knot. She followed his gaze and grabbed a pillow from the edge of the couch, putting it over her lap.

"I'm a lucky girl, you know. My puddin' loves me very much."

"I know." He didn't believe his own words, but there was no arguing with Harley Quinn. "He got you out of prison."

"I probably could have gotten myself out. I'm a tough girl, y'know, but after our suicide mission and all…" She paused. "I liked having friends."

Floyd saw a flash of everything in her dark eyes, from loneliness to desperation to playfulness. His insides stirred; the same protectiveness he felt for his daughter kindled in his chest. Had anyone ever looked out for Harleen Quinzel? Did she have a father out there somewhere who would feel burning rage at the bruises on her body and psyche? Was there an ex-husband who had held doors and brought home flowers?

He slung his arm across her shoulders and pulled her against him. She snuggled in for a long, warm moment. No words were needed. He felt her breathing sync with his.

Then Zoe's alarm went off in the other room, that irritating beep-beep that announced the start of day for his daughter.

Harley leapt up.

"Have fun with your daughter, Daddy!" Neither her voice nor eyes held any warmth; even the bright, tinny cheer in her voice felt false. He bit down on his tongue inside his mouth, holding back all the things he wanted to say to her rather than watch her go back out that window. "I've got to get back to Mistah J."

"You be safe out there, Harley."

She was out the window without another word.


End file.
